Amaretto Amber (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 3) (15 page)

"Speak for yourself," I said, reaching for my turtleneck.

Detective Sullivan entered and practically patted me down with his eyes. "Sorry to break up your little rehearsal, Amato, but I need you in the hallway—
before
you change out of your Great Pumpkin costume."

He strode from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Stinging from the squash comparison, I yanked on my sweater, which happened to be burnt orange, and glared at Glenda. "Get to work on that stomach panel."

As I exited into the hallway, Detective Sullivan pointed a finger at my chest. "What the hell do you think you're doing playing dress up while there's a dead body downstairs?"

I couldn't tell him that I was preparing to set a trap for the killer, or he'd charge me with interfering in an investigation. Instead, I gave him my best blank stare.

"So that's the way it's going to be, huh?" His eyes locked onto mine like a pair of handcuffs. "Fine by me. Because I already have an idea of what's going on here. But for your sake, I hope I'm wrong."

A heavy-set officer came out of Eugene's office. "We're done with Stripper Sacagawea, Detective." He wrinkled his lips like he was suppressing a laugh. "Who's up next?"

Saddle pushed past the officer and flashed him a fiery look as she headed for the stairs.

"Bring in the manager. I'll be right there." Detective Sullivan turned to me. "You'd better be gone by the time I'm done with Mr. Michael, or I'll escort you to the door myself and maybe to jail."

I was so angry that I almost stormed from the club in my costume, but then I got a better idea. I had a couple of bargaining chips, and I intended to use them. "Before you do anything drastic, I suggest you hear me out. I've uncovered a couple of things that could be useful to you."

He studied my face like it was a piece of evidence. "I'm listening."

"Not so fast." I took a step forward to show him that I could play bad cop too. "I need some information from you first."

The detective's eyes did a Dirty Harry. "Such as?"

I swallowed and prepared to fire off a round of questions. "Eugene mentioned that the club doesn't use the surveillance equipment after hours. I'm assuming you verified this?"

"You assumed correctly." He crossed his arms.

"What about Amber?" I imitated his stance. "Have you been able to track down her last address?"

He pursed his lips. "She was living alone in a pricey condo in the business district."

So Amber
had
been getting money from somewhere, possibly her mother. Or Shakey. "What about her next of kin? And her ex?"

"We have reason to believe the ex-boyfriend's in town, and we've verified that she was orphaned at the age of thirteen."

The news that Shakey was in New Orleans was even more reason to submit to Glenda's stripping scheme, but I wasn't willing to dismiss Maybe and Nadezhda's accounts of Amber's controlling mom. "That's strange, because two witnesses reported hearing her on the phone with her mother."

"Could be a close family friend." He leaned a shoulder against the wall. "Now what do you have for me?"

Evidently, my question-and-answer session was over. "A small glass vial I found near the main stage."

He tilted his head. "How do you know it's related to the case?"

"A hunch," I replied, already bracing myself for his reaction to what I was about to say. "I'm almost positive it came from a witchcraft spell kit Amber was using for protection."

A sneer unfurled across his face like a roll of crime scene tape. "That's rich, Amato. What else you got?"

I didn't care that he'd laughed off the witchcraft, because that only increased my odds of cracking the case before he did. Plus, I knew he'd take what I had to say next more seriously. "A credit card bill that links Amber to the purchase of a copy of the amber necklace."

His sneer faded. "I won't bother asking how you got that because I know I'd be wasting my breath." The steely glint in his eyes was menacing, like his tone. "But I expect you to turn it over immediately."

"It's at my place. I'll drop it by the police station with the vial." I paused as I thought of the pendant on Curaçao's neck. "Would you please do one thing for me?"

He snorted. "If you think I'm going to give you any more tips, you've flipped your jack-o-lantern lid."

I was pretty sure that my eyes flashed fire, and I imagined myself taking him down like I'd learned to do in police training. "Just keep the details of the necklace—and the copy—quiet from here on out."

Detective Sullivan raised his chin like he was prepping to punch a perp. "I told your colleague, Ms. Maggio, that my men and I would keep the pendant out of the investigation, and I've kept my word."

"That's great," I said. But it wasn't.

"Now you get out of here and bring me that bill within the hour." He shot me a cold, cop stare. "You understand?"

I nodded even though I hadn't heard a word he'd said. I was too busy trying to figure out how a suspect could've known about the amber pendant if the police hadn't mentioned it.

And any way I looked at it, it didn't look good for Eugene.

My front door opened, and three white-haired women in black entered.

The nonne were increasing in number.

As Santina greeted the newcomers, I fed an
arancino
I'd plucked from a dinner platter to Napoleon and then looked across the kitchen table at Veronica. "How do you think Bradley's going to react to nine nonne under one roof?"

She tapped her cell display. "I don't know, but I wouldn't miss it for the world."

I scrutinized her bent head as I grabbed one of the fried stuffed rice balls for myself. Even though she was my best friend, it sometimes seemed like she had a serious case of
schadenfreude
where I was concerned.

"Crescent Moon Saddles looks legit." She held up her phone.

I leaned forward and studied the company's website on her browser. The brand image matched the tattoo on Saddle's calf to a T. "Well, it doesn't prove she's not a witch, but I have to admit that she doesn't strike me as one." I sat back in my chair. "And now that I know Eugene was aware of the pendant, I've shifted my sights to him. He doesn't have an alibi, and since he didn't run video surveillance after hours, he could've easily committed the murders."

She arched a blonde brow. "As a crime of passion?"

"For me, the Amaretto di Amore suggests that love was a factor, but he denies being involved with Amber or Curaçao." I bit into the
arancino
. "The thing I can't figure out is the part the necklaces play in all of this."

"What can I do to help?" She placed her phone on the table.

I wiped my hands on a napkin. "Do you know whether David has found anything on Amber's mother?"

She shook her head. "Not that I know of."

"Crap." I tossed the napkin on the table. "Then you look into the mom and have him pull any info he can find on Old New Orleans Traditional Witchcraft and the voodoo goddess Erzulie Freda."

"What about Baron Samedi?" she asked as she began typing a text to David.

For a split second, I almost remembered where I'd seen the Baron, but then the memory was gone. "I'm already way too familiar with him," I replied, chewing the rest of my rice ball as I grabbed another. "What I need to know is whether the amber had anything to do with the protection spell Amber was performing or with Erzulie."

"I may have to handle the research myself." She picked up a fork. "Your nonna's keeping David pretty busy."

I dropped my
arancino
and my jaw. "How the hell does she know David?"

Veronica piled prosciutto onto her plate. "Apparently, you told her about him and his fraternity."

My jaw fell open again. I was astonished at my ability to underestimate my nonna. I closed my mouth, but not before taking a bite of the
arancino
. "What's she having him do? Build a robot for me to marry?"

"He and his frat brothers are creating a computerized model of the St. Joseph's Day altar." She rolled a slice of the cured ham. "She wanted them to make it too, but they don't know how to build anything in real life."

That was hardly surprising. Comp-Sci geeks weren't known for their construction skills. "But the altar is usually just a bunch of card tables they push together. Why does Nonna need a special design?"

She picked at the prosciutto. "To make sure you have easy access to the lemons."

Rage rocketed through my body, and I squeezed the
arancino
so hard that tomato-sauce-coated rice, mozzarella, and peas oozed between my fingers.

"Um, not to change the subject," she said, looking at my hand with eyes as round as ravioli, "but have you had any more run-ins with the man in black?"

"As far as I know, I haven't been followed." I stood up and went to the sink. "Maybe he came back over here, and the nonne scared him away."

Veronica didn't laugh because that scenario was all too possible—probable, even.

The toilet flushed, and my nonna shuffled into the kitchen chewing on a toothpick. She kept one in her mouth whenever food was around to spear herself the occasional olive or cheese chunk. "Franki, did-a you see? Santina can-a walk again!"

I scrubbed my hands to keep them from strangling her. "How'd it happen? Physical therapy?"

Nonna shook her head. "Bruno tell-a her that he was gonna leave-a home since she no cook, and-a Santina, she stand up and-a make him a four course-a meal!" She crossed herself. "It's a miracle!"

I suppressed a sacrilegious smirk as I dried my hands. The "miracle" would be if Bruno ever left. He was what Italians called a
mammone
, i.e., a mamma's boy-turned-man who was content to live at home and let his aging mother wait on him for life.

"That reminds-a me," Nonna said as she stabbed a salami slice with her toothpick, "Bruno asked Santina about-a you."

I grimaced as I sunk into my seat. "I hope she told him I was still seeing someone."

Nonna munched on the meat. "She tell-a him you work at a strip-a club."

I put my face in my hands. Bruno would be all over that information like white on pasta.

There was a knock on the door, and Bradley entered. "Hello, hello!"

I stood up to greet him, but my nonna got to him first.

"
Benvenuto
, Bradley." She kissed him on both sides of his face in accordance with Italian custom and promenaded him into the kitchen.

He flashed a smile. "Evening, ladies."

The nonne gathered around as though they'd just been granted an audience with the pope.

"This is-a Franki's
fidanzato
," Nonna said, using the word for both
boyfriend
and
fiancé
. "But soon he gonna be-a much-a more than-a that. Eh, Bradley?"

His smile faltered, and my face turned as red as the ragù simmering on the stove. Before I could pull my voice from the pit of my sinking stomach, Santina approached Bradley and grabbed him by the cheeks.

"
Beddu comu lu culu de viteddu
," she cooed. Then she released his face and gave it a pat that was more like a slap.

Bradley rubbed his flushed flesh and looked at me. "What'd she say?"

Nonna beamed. "That-a you are as handsome as-a the ass of a calf."

He looked taken aback, but I put my hand on his arm to reassure him.

"It's totally a compliment," I said in a knowing tone. "Right, Veronica?"

When she didn't reply, I turned to look at her. She was grinning like a restaurateur who'd just booked an Italian family reunion.

"Can someone give me a hand?" my mother called as she entered the apartment carrying groceries.

Bradley rushed into the living room. "Let me get those bags, Mrs. Amato."

As soon as my mother's arms were free, she fluffed her hair. "Why, Bradley." Her shrill voice had taken on a breathy quality. "You know you can call me Brenda."

I rolled my eyes. Marilyn Monroe my mom was not.

"Of course, Brenda." He deposited the groceries on the kitchen counter. "Wow," he said, peering inside one of the bags. "That's a lot of lemons."

I gave my mom a sour look.

"Uh, Francesca," she said, averting her gaze to the plastic tubs of bread stacked against a wall, "have you shown Bradley the bread?"

He tilted his head. "What bread?"

I removed the lid from one of the tubs. "Since the altar is to St. Joseph, they bake bread in the shape of carpenter's tools, staffs, crosses, animals—"

"And hands," Nonna interrupted from the kitchen. "Like-a this one."

She hurried into the living room with a loaf that looked like a left hand. "Oh!" she exclaimed in mock surprise as she pointed to a bump in the bread on the third finger. "It-a look-a like an engagement ring! It's a sign from-a God-a!"

The other nonne gasped and scurried from the kitchen to see the holy hand.

"Carmela is right," one of the newcomer nonne agreed. "It's a
fede
."

Fede
meant wedding ring and faith, something I was running short on at the moment. I grabbed a hand-shaped loaf from the open container and tore off a finger, fully intending on doing some stress eating. As I brought it to my lips, Bradley's eyes widened.

"Is that a…?" His voice trailed off as his eyes opened a little wider.

I realized how phallic the finger looked and dropped it, to Napoleon's delight. "Good Lord, no!"

My mom and nonna both cocked a brow, so I dragged Bradley into the kitchen before they could comment. I mean, in his defense, it was only natural that he'd think the finger was a penis since my nonna had once served him a pastry shaped like a boob.

"Hey, Bradley." Veronica shot him a sarcastic smile. "How's it going?"

He ran a hand (that the entire house now knew was glaringly wedding-ringless) through his hair. "Pretty good."

I could tell that he was trying to be a trooper, but work was clearly weighing on his mind. "Are things settling down at the bank?"

His jaw tensed. "Actually, no. Before I left I found out that Craig Burns is thinking about going with another bank. If he does, the board'll have my head."

My stomach almost upchucked the
arancini
. Craig was a construction magnate who'd hosted the party where Bradley took me on our first date (and where my lips puffed up like a couple of puffer fish after Craig taught me to suck crawdad heads Cajun style). "I can't believe it. You two are more than business associates. You're friends."

"That's what I thought too." He gazed out the window. "I just can't understand what's happening."

"Bradley," I began, preparing to tread on dangerous ground, "have you considered the possibility that someone from within the bank is sabotaging you?"

"Have you tried the
arancini
?" Veronica gushed, pushing the platter in front of Bradley. "They're a Sicilian specialty, and the name means
little oranges
because of their shape and color. Isn't that adorable?"

He looked from Veronica to me. "Franki," he said, his voice lethally low, "is there something you need to tell me?"

"Nooo," I replied as innocently as my Catholic guilt would permit. "I'm just surprised that Craig of all people would go to another bank. It makes me think that something else must be going on."

He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Well, if this were sabotage, I can't imagine what anyone would have on me. It's not like I've been negligent or broken any laws."

I stood statue-still as I remembered Ruth saying that Bradley knew I was a
professional problem
. My thinking was that if I didn't move, maybe he wouldn't remember it too and think that I was somehow responsible for this mess.

He gave me a small smile and kissed my cheek. "Don't worry. I'll deal with whatever's going on. As for Craig, I'm sure he has his reasons for wanting to leave."

And I knew exactly what those reasons were: Jeff and Payne. Evidently, the Machiavellian manager had paid Craig a visit like he had that other client Ruth told me about. The good news was that I knew Craig well enough to pay him a visit too—and to get to the bottom of this bank business.

My mother walked into the kitchen, tying an apron she'd brought from home around her waist. "Bradley, can Franki fix you something to eat?"

She gave me a serve-your-man stare, which I countered with a get-off-my-back glare.

"I'm good, thanks," Bradley said, sliding his arm around my shoulders.

A loud knock preempted my mother's protest about his refusal of food.

The shortest of the nonne opened the door and leaned her head back to see who it was.

"Evening ma'am," Detective Sullivan said. He had one hand on the doorjamb, and the other was in the pocket of his black, form-fitting suit pants. "Is Franki available?"

The baking ceased, and the nonne's eyes grew to the size of tortelloni. From their Old-World-Sicilian standpoint, the fact that a man had come to my home and uttered my name was tantamount to a declaration of undying love and also a sure sign of my betrayal of my not-yet-betrothed.

Stunned, the nano-nonna stepped aside and motioned toward the kitchen.

Detective Sullivan strode into the apartment and straight to my seat at the table. "I need a word with you outside."

The nonne's eyes darted from me to the detective and then fell on Bradley like a meat tenderizer on a veal cutlet.

"And you are?" Bradley asked, rising to his full six feet three inches.

I jumped up and knocked over my chair, which did nothing to allay his suspicions. "Uh, Bradley Hartmann, this is Detective Wesley Sullivan," I said as I picked up my seat. "He's in charge of the homicide investigation at Madame Moiselle's."

"Investigations,
plural
," the detective corrected, making no move to shake Bradley's hand.